


The Wolf of the Ninth

by emmykay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Eagle of the Ninth, Ficlet, M/M, Pre-Slash, Roman Britain, Slaves, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/pseuds/emmykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a Centurion forcibly retired to his father's house when he comes upon a werewolf in the gladiatorial games.  The Eagle of the Ninth fusion.  Stiles as Marcus, Derek as Esca.  Based on the book 'verse.  Ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf of the Ninth

When Stiles was carried in a litter into the arena that Saturnalia, he felt foolish but excited. He had not been outside his father's house for months, not since he had returned from his last, and final, battle as a Centurion of Rome. 

He had been fighting with his legion at their post in Mamucium, against a siege of natives, men and women both, with their clerics dressed in their robes and moon headdresses, and a local band of weres. The battle had gone on for days, with circumstances looking most dire until another legion appeared. His legion had broken through, Stiles at their forefront. He had paid for his initiative, becoming badly wounded through a spear in his thigh. His leg had gone to suppuration. The local surgeon had attempted to dig out the infection, but it had gotten worse. He was discharged from his position and sent to his father's house in Deva, his present uncertain, his future most certainly poor.

The litter had stopped outside of the arena, at Stiles' command. He had seen his old friend, Scott McCall. 

"Ready for the games?" Stiles asked, levering himself up off the litter. Stiles did not fool himself into thinking Scott was waiting for him, still, he attempted to keep up a social discourse.

"Yeah."

"Coming in?" Stiles had not seen Scott very much since his return to Deva. Scott was not interested in Stiles' short military career, nor was Stiles very interested in Scott's attempts to find work as a scribe. That aside, Scott had seemed unusually broody. Even though Scott had made a few visits since his return, Stiles felt something was very wrong. 

"No. Waiting for Allison."

"Excellent. How is she?"

After waiting for further conversation and not receiving any, Stiles felt himself a fool. He gestured to one of the litter-bearers and they started to walk up the steps into the arena. Stiles had missed the procession and sat down next to his father, settling himself against the wooden frame of the arena, his thigh throbbing dully. 

The arena in Deva was a large one, and all the details etched themselves into Stiles' consciousness; the several thousand spectators filling the stands, the damp chill in the air, the slant of the early winter sun, the white fabric hanging over his seat in an attempt to catch the unpredictable rains, the smells of man and animal. It had been so very long since he had left his home. He was not a devotee of the arena games, but at least it was better than being inside, being treated like a lapdog of the housekeeper. He knew that Sassticca was a good soul, he just couldn't bear to be indoors any longer. He had never been any good at sitting still, the wound only punctuating the situation whenever he tried to move.

He sat through the animal exhibits, and then the training games, thinking it was a tremendous waste. Aware of Stiles' twitching, his father leaned over and murmured, "Last match before lunch break."

Several men came out of the gates from where the corridors came up to the arena floor. One was dressed in Thracian gear, another in Fisher, yet another was in armed Hoplomachi, and a few others. They bowed toward Stiles' father, and other magistrates sat, and then again toward the altar of Nemesis. They stood, waiting. 

They did not wait long. Stiles strained to see. A guard holding a chain that was attached to a collar, locked about the neck of a bare-chested, man wearing a grimy loincloth. His ankles were hobbled by chains. His lean body was covered with faded scars and blue and black tattoos; most were angular and linear, but a single large spiral swirled across his broad back. 

Stiles leaned toward his father. "I don't understand. That's too many against one."

"Captive native were," his father responded.

Of course. Stiles hadn't ever seen any at the games, it was more of their way to destroy themselves than to ever be taken alive. The guard locked one end of ankle chain to a ring set into the floor of the arena, and then unlocked the collar, jerking away rapidly.

The were raised his head, attempting pride, eyes sweeping over the crowd. He was young, not much older than Stiles himself. The were had a full head of thick black hair, fair skin, and startlingly light hazel eyes. Upon meeting those eyes, something twisted inside Stiles' chest. There was pride, and fear, and shame in those eyes, and a call from deep within the were, that found an answering call within him. 

The professional gladiators swept towards the were. The Fisher reached out with his trident and prodded the were's shoulder. The others followed, closing in on the were. They were flung back shortly, as the were was provoked into shifting. The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck rose. A werewolf. Eyes lit with rage, clawed hands reached out, blindly. The arena was momentarily hushed. 

The werewolf rushed, but was halted by the chain about his ankle. The crowd called in derision.

No, thought Stiles. _No._ To attack so many men from a pinned position, there needed to be a strategy, a plan. For a moment, he thought the werewolf had heeded his thoughts. The werewolf fell back, looking panicked. The gladiators boxed in the werewolf. In what seemed to be a defensive maneuver, one was slashed across the chest. The gladiator stumbled, clutching his torso, blood leaking from between his fingers. The crowd was on its feet, shouting and shrieking, bloodlust rising in the air. 

The werewolf stood still. From behind, an armed fighter approached. The werewolf turned. From his side, the Fisher threw the net over him, his trident in position, were ready to spear the werewolf through. Like a lodestone aiming for the north, the werewolf turned his face toward Stiles. His hazel eyes were somber. Then, startlingly, he dropped to his knees and raised his chin. Not in defiance. In submission. 

Like everyone else in the arena, Stiles was on his feet, aching leg forgotten, crying out. Unlike everyone else, he cried for mercy, for the saving of a life.

Stiles' father jumped upward, demanding mercy as well. Stiles did not know how it happened, but then Lydia's father signaled mercy, as did Optio Finstock. And on down the line, mercy was demanded. And then it was given.

The werewolf was spared. 

* * *

 

Stiles dropped his book to the ground next to him. He leaned back on his chair, sighing heavily. He looked around at his father's home, the comfortable study, the clean tunics he and his father both wore, the cup of wine that sat that his father's elbow.

His father looked at him over his reports. "Yes?"

"Where do the werewolves come from?" 

"Well -"

"I've looked at the works in this house, all the ones available through your office and there is no single good answer!"

"Stiles - "

"One would think, given the amount of time the Empire has been in Britainnia, there would be a better answer than this. Somebody should have studied it. Even Deaton doesn't have any answers."

"What is this about?"

"Just curious," Stiles said, leaning over to retrieve the book.

Magistrate Stilinski said, "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Has it been a burden, having me come back?"

"Of course not, Stiles."

"Even if I can't support myself, and have to use your servants - "

"You are my son." Magistrate Stilinski leaned forward. "I am most sorry you've been wounded, but it was an honorable wound, and even if the Empire doesn't recognize your worth, I do."

"I have enough from my discharge to purchase a slave. If it would lessen the burden - " 

"Stiles." Magistrate Stilinski sighed. "Should I have said something about curiosity killing the ex-centurion looking to buy a werewolf?"

Stiles flinched. He hadn't ever been good at hiding anything. "What do you think is going to happen to him?" 

Magistrate Stilinski said, "Few want a gladiator who will not fight, fewer still want a werewolf. He will most likely be sold for hard labor. Maybe in the mines."

Stiles frowned. "Still. Do you think it possible - "

"Anything is possible, Stiles. A better question is, "would it be wise?" And I believe you know the answer to that."

Stiles did not stop frowning.

His father sighed. "You'd best sleep with a silver knife by your side, then."

* * *

Within a few days, the werewolf was delivered, a locked leather collar about his neck, his ear lobe deeply notched, his expression broody. Now faced with the reality of the werewolf, of his own personal slave, Stiles found himself unable to speak in a measured way. He blurted, "What's your name?"

"I am Derek, son of Talia, brother of Laura, of the Hale pack of the Beacon Hills." 

Stiles felt it only right to reply, "I am son of Magistrate Stilinski." He added, "Son of Claudia. Call me Stiles."

Derek said, "You can name me what you will."

"I can't take your name," Stiles protested. A thought occurred to him. "Why didn't you run away? The guard delivering you was old and feeble. You could have easily disappeared, and it would have taken a long time before anyone noticed you were missing."

"In the arena, you were the only one who looked at me, who saw me. When I had heard that I would be purchased, I had wondered who might do it. I had hoped that it might be you." Derek bowed his head slightly, and then glanced upward at Stiles. His eyes were very pale, catching the light. "Why did you stop them from killing me?"

"It seemed - it seemed wrong. You aren't an animal, and you weren't fighting back." Stiles looked at Derek's large hands, remembering their deadly claws. "Why didn't you kill any of the gladiators? It would have been easy for you."

Derek said, "To what end?"

"Yeah," said Stiles. "I suppose you're right. The only thing for you would have been death, by gladiator. If you were lucky." Stiles rose to stand, but winced as he put pressure on his bad leg.

"You are lamed," Derek noted.

Stiles snipped off a response, reaching forward to grab a chair back as his leg spasmed. Derek was there, moving so swiftly Stiles did not see, catching hold of Stiles' flailing hand, steadying him on his feet.

"Is that why you bought me?"

"I needed someone to help me. You can see I can't do much for myself." With a rueful set to his mouth, Stiles said, "If the personal care of another bothers you, you could easily kill me in my sleep. Run off into the night. Nothing less harmful than a retired Centurion with a lame leg."

Derek straightened. "No, I would not do that. I am now the hound of Stiles. I will do whatever you bid me."


End file.
